‘I’ve timed that your average fag break lasts around eight minutes, including the time it takes your wee stubby legs to walk out of the building. So, at six ciggies a day, that is forty-eight minutes lost every day. Which is 240 minutes per week,’ he said, sounding like a maths teacher as he tapped numbers into his BlackBerry calculator. ‘That’s four hours a week. So over your forty-four working weeks, that comes to 176 hours a year. Divide that by an eight-hour shift and it comes to… twenty-two days.
With a smile spreading across his face, Connor concluded, ‘You are stealing twenty-two days a year from the company with your nicotine habit.’
‘Everyone needs a screen break. It’s the law,’ April replied feebly. She hated when Connor went on one of his little rants. She also hated having her smoking habit laid bare in such brutal fashion. But a newsroom wasn’t for the thin-skinned or fainthearted.
But still she couldn’t stop herself. April had actually given up smoking years ago – more or less – but she only replaced one vice with another: eating. Her weight had ballooned and Connor would tease that her hips were now as ‘wide as the Clyde’. So after almost a decade-long hiatus, she began secretly smoking again, in so much as she tried to hide her habit from her daughter. Whether it was being older she wasn’t sure, but she still had an insatiable appetite. But now she also had the hunger pangs mixed with nicotine cravings. She’d curse herself for being so stupid, yet at the same time come to the conclusion that she simply loved eating, drinking and smoking.
‘Well, when the sex goes, we need something else to keep us entertained,’ she announced to no one in particular.
Although she felt like she was losing the battle against her weight and habits, she was determined to try to conquer her fears of technology. ‘Right, you little bastard,’ she said to the iPad, ‘let’s do this thing.’
29 #HardAss
Lieutenant Haye was already in Colin Cooper’s office when the head of security for the Baltimore City Hotel arrived at 7am for the start of his shift. If he was surprised to see a cop sitting in his chair, he didn’t show it.
‘It’s the captain’s little bitch – getting plenty of cock these days?’ Cooper said while taking off his suit jacket and placing it on the hook at the back of his door.
‘You always were a silver-tongued bastard, Coops,’ Haye smirked back, refusing to take the bait.
‘Rather be a bastard than a brown nose.’
Colin Cooper was a squat man with wide shoulders, which could just about accommodate the massive chip he’d carried around for most of his life. Cooper had been a homicide detective for twenty-two years before being forced to take early retirement, after his bosses discovered a prostitution racket he had going as a lucrative sideline. It had been the straw that broke the camel’s back, with rumours of police brutality following him throughout his career. So much so, Cooper was nicknamed ‘Blackbeard’ by defence lawyers as their clients would inevitably turn up wearing eyepatches after being in his custody. Following on from his enforced dismissal and the threat of feeling the full weight of the law if he tried to set up his prostitution business again, Cooper had been left deeply resentful of the police – and in particular of his former colleagues, who had gleefully shown him the door.
‘So how can I assist Baltimore’s finest today?’ Cooper said with his usual sneer.
‘In case you haven’t noticed, there was a homicide on your watch. Room 1410? High-profile dude. Goes by the name of Bryce Horrigan. Ring any bells?’ It was Haye’s turn to be sarcastic.
‘Oh yeah, think I heard something on the news. How are the brains of homicide getting on catching his killer?’ Cooper replied nonchalantly. He took a seat at his desk, which was crowded by three large Mac screens that systematically flicked through the hotel’s several surveillance cameras, displaying the images in black and white. ‘First thing I did was download all the footage we had and hand it over to you guys,’ Cooper said, indicating towards the screens.
‘That was very public-spirited of you, Coops. But I guess we’d get on a lot quicker if you told us the name of the hooker you rented the room out to?’ Haye wasn’t smiling any more.
‘What?’ Coops replied as if he hadn’t heard, before continuing, ‘What the fuck does that mean?’
‘It means you had a deal going with room 1410,’ Haye said stony-faced.
‘Good to see the homicide department has developed a sense of humour since I left. About time, as it’s full of clowns.’
‘C’mon, Coops, you’re the one who’s clowning around. We’re not after you. We need to speak to the whore. She saw the killer. She’s our only eyewitness.’
‘How do you know she saw him?’ Coops said, changing tack.
‘Your cameras. She counted her dough in the lift. Classy girl. She was in there long enough to blow him, so we’re hoping she looked up and saw his face. Now stop fucking around or you’re coming with me. I’m sure your old buddies will give you a warm welcome,’ Haye warned.
‘Fuck them and fuck you too, Haye. If that’s the way you want to play it, then let’s play,’ Cooper snarled back.
‘Right, screw this. You have the right to remain stupid, fucknuts,’ Haye said, grabbing Cooper by the shoulders and snapping on the cuffs behind his back. ‘You always were a stubborn bastard, Coops.’
‘And you always were an asshole,’ he replied in kind.
30 #CouncilHolmes
At the same time that Colin Cooper was being taken downtown, another policeman was slamming the phone down on his superior nearly three-and-a-half thousand miles away in Glasgow’s Pitt Street – the former HQ for Strathclyde Police, before all eight of the country’s regional forces were merged together in 2013. Detective Chief Inspector David ‘Bing’ Crosbie had just taken a new set of orders from Superintendent Cruickshank. He was to be the chief liaison officer for ‘our American cousins’ after an official request had come in via the Foreign Office and London’s Scotland Yard from Baltimore Police Department.
‘Fuckity bumhole,’ Crosbie fumed. ‘Now I’m a lackey for a bunch of Yankee doodle wankies.’
DCI Crosbie had once been the archetypical policeman – straight-laced, methodical in his work, never cutting corners, and with a ruthless determination that saw him always get his man. He also abhorred swearing. But that had been the old Crosbie. A year ago he had undergone a complete personality change, becoming outspoken, opinionated and cocky. He also swore. A lot. Crosbie believed his inner monologue suffered from a kind of Tourette’s syndrome, a neuro-disorder that made him think the most offensive and inappropriate thoughts. Now those thoughts were well and truly out in the open, and aired on a frequent basis. It had endeared him to the rank and file, who had always thought of ‘Bing’ as a cold fish, but now he was the life and soul of the party – though it was not the best persona for a crime scene.
At a recent ‘domestic’ in a basement council flat in Glasgow’s perpetually deprived Easterhouse scheme – Scotland’s equivalent to the projects in the US – Crosbie had adopted an aloof Sherlock Holmes-style manner for the benefit of his subordinates. The couple had got into a drunken fight, with the wife fatally stabbing her husband. Her husband had retaliated by stabbing her back. The result was utter carnage, with two dead bodies and hardly a surface in the two-bedroom flat untouched by their crimson stains. The only witnesses had been their two young children, now orphaned and with memories to shatter any childhood.
‘I see what has happened here,’ Crosbie announced while studying the crime scene. ‘The male, let’s call him “Jimmy” for talking’s sake, has come in late on the Friday night, rather the worse for drink. The female, “Senga” seems an appropriate moniker I’d say, has not approved of his lifestyle choices. She has probably used an opening gambit along the lines of, “Where the fuck have you been, shitface? Chatting up that slutty old barmaid again, huv ye?” Jimmy, full of bravado and cheap booze, might
have retorted, “Away ye go and fuck yersel’,” or words to that effect, and perhaps encouraged her to “go greetin’ tae yer ma as ye always fucking dae.” Jimmy has then slumped into this armchair to watch the oversized, flat-screen television, which they can ill afford and rather dominates this meagre living space,’ Crosbie said, pointing like a game show hostess at the giant TV screen that almost filled one entire wall of the room.
‘Now, Senga has been none too happy with Jimmy’s tone, and demonstrates this by grabbing the largest knife she can get hold of from this cutlery drawer here,’ Crosbie said while marching to the kitchen and pointing to the half-opened utensil drawer. ‘She has then walked in a determined fashion back to the living room and plunged said knife into Jimmy’s neck, with words to the effect of “Take this, ya bastit,”’ Crosbie continued, indicating the suspicious dark staining around the headrest of the armchair.
‘But instead of “taking it”, Jimmy has surprised Senga by leaping to his feet, removing the blade from his neck, then stabbing her in the heart. The next few minutes involve them staggering around with their arterial spurts of blood giving the flat a rather fetching red makeover. Chuck in a couple of kids traumatised for life and it’s typical Friday night fare in the schemes, ladies and gentlemen. A tragic Shakespearean ending for the Romeo and Juliet of Easterhouse. Elementary, my dear wanker,’ Crosbie said, patting the shoulder of a young police recruit who was desperately trying to stifle his laughter. ‘El-e-fucking-mentary.’
Crosbie’s career trajectory had in fact been on a rapid rise ever since he had solved the murder of a high-profile Scottish businesswoman by the name of Selina Seth. But his split personality was getting worse – with the sweary Crosbie he had tried so hard to suppress now appearing in full control. While the detective’s new outgoing personality may have provided the laughs for his colleagues, it deeply worried his superiors, who were now determined to sideline Crosbie. And he knew it.
‘Baltimore Homicide department,’ Crosbie said, reading an email from Superintendent Cruickshank. ‘I better buy the boxset of The Wire so I know what the fuck I’m talking about,’ the detective mused.
31 #TheRingRound
Tom O’Neill @DerryDude1887
Can’t believe he’s gone. RIP @BryceTripleB
The staff at ABT News were still in a state of shock, wandering around in a trance. There was no procedure for an event like this, when your star presenter is suddenly no more. Apart from having to deal with the media maelstrom, senior executives now had a forty-five-minute hole to fill in their schedules every night.
There was also the question of what sort of tribute piece should be done for the first show in Bryce’s absence. Should it be a montage of clips from his best, most combative interviews, or should they hurriedly try to arrange on-camera pieces from his celebrity friends giving glowing tributes to the deceased presenter?
Tom O’Neill knew all too well that celebrity ring rounds were the bane of every reporter’s life. Whenever an editor or one of his minions wanted an opinion on some topic or another, they ordered their staff to phone celebrities. The problem was, editors came up with the idea so often it was always the same faces, which was mostly ageing soap actors or fading pop stars – basically anyone a journalist could get instantly on the end of a phone.
Whenever the topic was really important, editors would add the proviso, ‘And no crap celebs this time – I want A-listers.’ That meant going through agents and managers and, given the deadlines and time constraints, this was a completely futile exercise. So, forced with nothing better to run, they would end up using the same old faces yet again. Tom had always made a point of calling the Krankies for a quote whenever he was ordered to do a celeb ring round.
The Krankies were a veteran husband-and-wife showbiz act, who had been on the go for nearly half a century. Tom called so often, the pair just told him to ‘make up whatever you want us to say’, the sort of open invitation a journalist has wet dreams about. There wasn’t a topic too trivial or too big for the family entertainers to tackle: from nuclear disarmament to the death of Nelson Mandela, the Krankies always had something poignant and meaningful to say.
Tom thought he had left all that behind when he had quit London for New York. He’d been installed as Bryce Horrigan’s Head of Content. It had been a grand title, but he found himself doing almost the same job as he had in London – being at Bryce’s beck and call to try to make his boss’s cocaine-induced ideas work.
Now, in the wake of Bryce’s death, the network chief arrived on the editorial floor, instantly commanding respect. ‘I know you’re all suffering, folks. But you are professionals and we have a show to put together. I want to get a bunch of celebrities to give tributes to Bryce for tonight’s show. No Z-listers. I want A-listers.’
New country. Different medium. But same old shit as far as Tom was concerned. He sat in his late boss’s chair for the first time and swivelled around to take in the city. There was nothing like the Manhattan skyline. It was such a pity Tom never had the time to appreciate it. He was perpetually busy, doing at least fourteen-hour days. And Bryce was even more demanding as a TV host than he was as a national newspaper editor.
After replacing Connor Presley, Tom had eventually risen to become Bryce’s deputy editor. But in New York he had hit the glass ceiling. As Horrigan’s deputy, he could rise no further. There was virtually no prospect of taking the editor’s chair from him in London or unseating him in New York. In one late-night boozy session after work, Tom had been crying into his drink, bemoaning the lack of advancement opportunities, when Bryce had announced he was taking a rare week’s holiday to return to the UK. Tom assumed he would finally get to anchor the TV show in his absence. But the network chief had decided to run a bunch of Bryce re-runs instead. In a bustling bar off Second Avenue, where the real New Yorkers like to drink away from the tourists, Bryce gave it to Tom straight.
‘They just don’t want you in front of camera, I’m afraid,’ he said casually.
Tom was appalled; he had been hoping this would be his big break. ‘I’ve been waiting for this, Bryce. It’s what I came for,’ he said in his Derry accent. Tom felt he was far more suited to television than Bryce. He was better looking for a start.
‘The problem is your voice, old bean. The Americans haven’t a clue what you’re saying. To be truthful, I didn’t have a fucking clue what you were banging on about for the first year you worked for me, but your copy was always spot-on. So I’m afraid a Northern Irish brogue just ain’t going to cut it with our American friends.’
Bryce’s words had been like a dagger to Tom’s heart. It felt like his whole career was a sham. That he was destined to forever live in Bryce’s shadow.
32 #BridgeToNowhere
Geoffrey Schroeder looked at the Buffalo and Fort Erie Bridge that linked the US with Canada. A highway display showed that the waiting time for border crossings was currently less than twenty minutes. Now would be as good a time as any. He was about to pull out of a lay-by when his notifications revealed he had received a DM. He stopped the car to read the message.
‘About time,’ Schroeder mumbled to himself.
The DM read:
Baby Angel @BabyAngel
Hold tight, you are on the righteous path. Help is on the way.
Now Schroeder had the unenviable task of finding somewhere safe to hide out, which was easier said than done when you are in a strange state with dwindling resources.
He wrote back:
Geoffrey Schroeder @GeoffreySchroeder
Who are you sending?
Baby Angel @BabyAngel
One of my disciples will give you a passage to safety. Keep the faith.
Schroeder did not reply and he was not placated. He felt like a hunted animal and now knew he could trust no one.
33 #JetLagged
In his twenties Connor travelled a lot, but he had given up
on long-haul flights by his mid-thirties as it took him longer and longer to recover. He remembered reading somewhere that President Ronald Reagan was almost incapacitated by jet lag. As a young man, Connor had failed to understand the concept. Now he knew exactly where Reagan was coming from. Even sleeping much of the journey in business class, the five-hour time difference left Connor feeling physically sick.
Instead of being fresh to hit the ground running as he hoped, Connor felt groggy, lead-footed and disorientated. ‘This is why I holiday in Europe,’ he said to himself as he waited for his luggage. He knew he’d better shake his malaise fast. His first stop would be the hotel where his old friend and boss had been murdered. He suspected the place would be swarming with reporters, but it would at least allow him to touch base with some of the local journalists. It would also give him some colour for his copy describing what the hotel looked like.
But something was nagging Connor even through the fug of his jet lag-muddled mind. Just what the heck was Bryce Horrigan doing in Baltimore, anyway? His bosses at ABT News hadn’t released any information in their statements to explain why their anchorman had come to Maryland. There weren’t even any off-the-record briefings about Bryce being on an assignment, or being due to interview someone here. A quick check through an online what’s-on guide confirmed there was no one of note in the state the weekend Bryce died – neither a well-known actor nor a world-famous band that Bryce had arranged to interview mid-tour. In fact, nothing appeared to be happening in Baltimore that weekend at all. Bryce would normally hang out in the top celebrity joints of Los Angeles and New York, to make sure he was seen and to also try to personally pick up some big names for his TV show, knowing the ratings boost that they’d bring.
DM for Murder Page 8